Six to Ten
by SweetDreamsAreMadeOfThis2
Summary: A week into Sherlock's rehab, all of his entourage is taking turns to look after him. One night comes John's. And he decides that he can no longer remain silent about what happened in that morgue.


"Really?!"

"Really!"

"Christ…" John laughed, shaking his head at the incredible story Sherlock had just told him. It was an old case of his, a gruesome but ridiculously stupid murder he helped solve back in his younger days. John had heard many stories from his first years as a consulting detective – though he hadn't invented the job at the time – and that one was by far his favourite now. Along with the 'Jellyfish' case, maybe.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked, still giggling from his own recollection of the events as he stood up from his chair.

"Yes, please."

"Coming right away," he smiled on his way to the kitchen, his dressing gown flowing behind him.

It had been a week since John, Mrs Hudson, Molly and Lestrade began to take turns to stay with Sherlock during his rehab, and he was doing a lot better. His left eye was still bloodshot – though almost back to normal – and his body still weak from drug abuse and ill-nourishment, but he looked healthier and… yes, somehow happier than he had in days. Which made John's heart beam as much as it was making it burn.

They hadn't talked again about what happened. About what John did. To him. In that morgue. And the more time passed, the more his guilt grew. He knew he couldn't let that slide. But he was afraid to bring it up. Afraid of seeing the pain on Sherlock's face again, or worse: fear.

"Sherlock..."

"Mmm?"

John swallowed hard and slowly got to his feet, hands clenching as he turned towards Sherlock, busy with the tea and oblivious to his inner turmoil.

"Listen, um… there's… something I…"

He paused and licked his lips, eyes fixed on the kitchen floor he'd just stepped onto. His heart was racing and he was beginning to feel sick.

"Yes? What is it?" Sherlock asked, his voice so soft and attentive that it made John's stomach turn a bit more. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath to gather his courage.

"John?..."

"I'm sorry," he butted in, waiting a few seconds before looking up to meet Sherlock's questioning gaze and worried expression.

"For… what?"

"For what I did to you."

The words felt like a stab in the gut. And by the way Sherlock tilted his chin up as he took them in, John knew they had the same effect on him. His chest in a vice, John licked his lips again and stepped forward, staring at the table between them.

"It was… unforgivable. It _is_ unforgivable. Will always be. And I'm aware that no apology will ever make it right, but… it's the least I can do. It's the least I _must_ do. The least you deserve. So, again: I'm sorry. I'm deeply, profoundly… sorry."

His voice trailed off and he had to close his eyes to keep the tears away. Everything he had just said sounded so meaningless and hollow compared to the pain he had caused. How was he even allowed to _say_ anything? How could he even _be_ here, standing here, in _this_ flat, this… nearly sacred place, _their_ place, their _home_ , after what he'd done? How…

"John…"

The hoarse sound of Sherlock's voice made John lose the last bit of composure he had left. With a wince, he hung his head and closed his eyes more tightly to stop the burning tears from falling.

"John, look at me…"

John's chin dropped further. That was precisely what he didn't want to do. All he wanted in this very moment was to disappear off the face of the Earth, for good. But he couldn't run away from himself any longer. He had to take the responsibilities for his actions.

With a sharp breath, John raised his head and opened his eyes, catching Sherlock's. He looked pained, just like John was afraid he would. And the second he noticed John's glimmering eyes, his features saddened even further.

"I've forgiven you, John," he said softly.

John's chest tightened. "Yeah, well, you shouldn't have," he croaked, a single tear slipping down his cheek which he quickly wiped with the tip of his fingers, looking away for a bit. When he peeked back at Sherlock, he saw that his jaw had dropped slightly.

"John—"

"I hurt you, Sherlock. Bad. And I don't just mean…" He paused and gulped the aching lump in his throat as the scene in the morgue flashed again before his eyes. "I blamed you when it wasn't your fault. I pushed you away when you just wanted to help. I let you go through hell, and I was ready to leave you there. I'm…"

He gave a trembling sigh and ran a hand on his face, resting the other on his hip. A monster, that's what he was.

"John…" Sherlock continued, speaking ever so quietly. "You were grieving. You were angry, and—"

"I had no excuse, Sherlock. None. And I was certainly not _entitled_." John scoffed at the word and shook his head, starting to pace the room. "Christ, how could you say something like that?... How can you _think_ something like that?... _Me_ , _entitled_ to treat you like shit?... To beat you up?... To make you suffer?..."

Sherlock swallowed with difficulty and lowered his head. "Well, as I said not long ago, my life is a currency I do not know how to spend," he replied in a raw voice.

John stared at him. "You still really mean that?"

"Yes."

His answer had almost come as a whisper, and John felt his heart sink. "Sherlock, you are… God, I don't even know where to start…" He paused and rested his fists on the table, leaning in to catch Sherlock's attention. "You're a great man, Sherlock. More than that: you're a good one. You're human, kind… definitely an oddball and sometimes a bit of an arse, but…" he chuckled, managing a smile, "… as I told you before, and more than once: you are the best and the wisest man I've ever known. And _I_ still really mean that."

Sherlock blinked rapidly to clear away the tears that had welled up in his eyes, biting his lips.

"I… still failed you," he murmured.

"N-no, please, stop this. You didn't."

"I vowed to protect—"

"You vowed to always be there. And you have. You've been there, always, ever since that day. You did more than what was required of you. Hell, you didn't even have to make a vow in the first place!... Believe me, only one of us failed the other here, and that's me."

Sherlock kept mum, absorbing every word.

"See, you don't disagree with me," John pointed out with a sad smirk.

Sherlock cast a sheepish glance at him, the corner of his mouth lifting very briefly in the same fashion. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Why would you be?"

"I just…" he began, hesitant. "I don't want you… to..."

"To what?"

"… to believe that it's the only image I have of you now."

John looked at him for a moment, a fond expression on his face. "I don't," he said gently. "But it's one of them. The soldier, the doctor... and the man who hates himself so much that he needed to take it out on someone else to avoid lashing out on himself, more than usual."

Sherlock's lips parted in distress at his last words. "I… didn't realise you were…"

"That much of a mess?" John laughed bitterly. "Oh yeah."

They fell into silence for a while, both of them contemplating what the other had said, until Sherlock spoke again, his tone calm and reflective.

"I take it that we could both use some self-love."

"Yeah, definitely."

"I'll help you."

John looked up from the invisible spot he was staring at and fixed his gaze on Sherlock, cracking a smile full of affection for this ridiculous and wonderful man.

"I'll help you too. If… you allow me, of course. And I would understand if you don't want me to—"

"I will," Sherlock cut in. "I do. I do want you to."

An intense wave of relief washed over John, who struggled not to get carried away with emotion again. "Thank you," he let out in a breath. "I feel like I really don't deserve it, but… I'm…" He tried to find the right word, but nothing that he could come up with even began to cover how grateful he was. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Sherlock smiled, so tenderly that John's heart melted within him.

"Come here," he gestured with his chin to the empty space next to him.

Sherlock gave him an inquiring look and awkwardly began to move from where he was standing, unsure of what John was asking of him.

"Come here, silly!" John laughed, skirting around the table to pull him into a hug. "It's my turn," he joked, and he could hear Sherlock's lips curling up as he wrapped his arms around him.

John let out an elated sigh. There was something particular in the way Sherlock held him. He couldn't tell if it was his arms and how they embraced John's smaller frame perfectly, or his fingers and how evenly they stretched over his back, but he felt… good. Better yet – he felt safe, _loved_ ; and this very thought suddenly revived John's guilt over what he had put Sherlock through.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he grasped Sherlock's nape curls and pulled him closer, swallowing the lump that had reappeared in his throat. "I promise you…" he whispered, "I will never hurt you again. Never again. And this is my own vow, to you."

For a minute, it felt as if Sherlock had stopped breathing. His chest wasn't moving against John's anymore, and John could sense his heartbeat going stronger. But when Sherlock's stomach resumed its slow rise and fall, and his clasp tightened around John's body, John knew. Fighting back a new wave of tears, he grasped the back of Sherlock's neck again and reached up to stroke his curly hair, cupping the curve of his head with the palm of his hand.

"Thank you… Thank you…"

It was all he could manage, all he could think of. And it was already too much to handle. With a gasp of air, he gave one last ruffle to Sherlock's curls and slowly let go of him, hands sliding down his large shoulders. When they faced again, Sherlock was the first to lock eyes with him, and the pure emotion that John read in them filled him with warmth. Sniffing back his own, he let out a wobbly chuckle and patted him on the neck, staring and smiling at his beautiful face. Sherlock smiled back, and both remained standing there in the quiet of the flat, disturbed only by the sound of increasing traffic outside.

"The tea is going to get cold," Sherlock remarked after a while.

John frowned and looked down at the two cups which had been waiting on the table, full and ready, for the past ten minutes – which incidentally had seemed like an hour.

"Right, yes!" he exclaimed, getting his hands off Sherlock and stepping back. "Sorry, I… completely forgot about that," he snorted in amusement.

"Do you want me to make you another cup?"

"Nah, it's fine. Just put them in the microwave, it'll do the trick."

Sherlock's eyes went wide at his comment. It took John a few seconds to understand what was wrong, and when he did, he couldn't help but giggle.

"Yes, I know, it's against the rules of British etiquette. But we'll make up for it tonight with the height of Britishness on DVD."

Sherlock's eyebrows came back down and furrowed in thought for a fleeting moment, his whole face suddenly lighting up as the answer to John's riddle popped into his mind.

"Bond night?..."

"Bond night."

The two men beamed at each other and Sherlock pouted in satisfaction, grabbing their cups to put them in the microwave. With a smile, John drew the chair at the end of the table and sat down.

It was going to be a lovely evening.


End file.
